


In Darkness We Gather

by Lolotte



Series: The Eldritch Dark [1]
Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anyone can die, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Crapsack World, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Horror, Multi, Other, Post-BO1, Pre-BO2, Vampires doing vampire stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-27 17:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolotte/pseuds/Lolotte
Summary: A fledgling vampire awakens with no memory of her previous life or knowledge of who sired her. A ghost claiming to be the long-dead Moebius points her toward Kain, and urges her to find her redemption by destroying him.Things get complicated when she is intercepted by and conscripted into a young Kain's army on its march toward Meridian.
Relationships: Kain & Vorador (Legacy of Kain), Kain/Magnus (Legacy of Kain), Vorador & Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Eldritch Dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2217123
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	In Darkness We Gather

_A broken flower crown on a cobblestone street. A retinue of princes traveling up a mountain pass, their banners rippling in the wind._

  
_A halberd. Glowing white eyes in a blue skull._

  
_A voice I_ ’ _ve never heard joining me in prayers I no longer remember._

  
_A fur around my shoulders while I shiver. The twang of bowstrings. A single black feather resting on a frozen lake._

  
_I_ ’ _m so thirsty. I can_ ’ _t remember the last time I_ ’ _ve been this parched._

  
The woman slowly opened her eyes. A round window illuminated by the faint yellow-orange glow of torchlight swam into focus. Her eyes roved around the room as she took in her surroundings. The chamber was round, made of grey stone. Grey stone arches rose up on every side of the room, meeting at the round window on the ceiling. Stale, damp air filled her lungs.

  
She sighed and ran her fingers through long, white hair.

  
_Was my hair always this long? Was it always white?_

  
She froze when she noticed her nails were elongated into sleek, black claws, and that her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. The woman slowly rotated her hand, examining her palms. Her gaze extended further down, away from her hand. She wore a long-sleeved purple arming coat, black pants, and soft leather boots. Her tongue grazed the bottom edges of her top teeth. Had her eyeteeth always been so sharp? She furrowed her brow, trying to remember. Colors, shapes, and faces appeared in her mind’s eye, but she couldn’t make sense of them.

  
“What’s my name?” she whispered, as though someone would answer her. “I don’t remember my name.” She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to conjure up more of the visions.

  
“ _Amara, come here._ ” _An unnaturally pale young woman with a sweet, round face smiles._  
_I guess Amara will do, if anyone asks._

  
She pushed further into her memory, trying to make something, anything come to the surface. Nothing came into focus. God, the thirst! The thirst clawed at the edges of her mind and forced itself front and center. Trying to swallow made Amara’s throat ae.  
  
  
_Find something to drink now. Worry about not being able to remember anything later._ Amara swung her legs over the side of the stone slab and stepped down. She took a wobbling step, stumbled, and stopped. Then she took a tiny step forward, with her arms outstretched in case she lost her balance again. _I need water. Ale. Something._ Amara’s gaze fell on a puddle on the floor. Her nose wrinkled. Was a puddle of filthy water on the floor of a crypt all there was? _If I drink that I_ ’ _ll be sick,_ she thought, _but if that_ ’ _s my only option, I_ ’ _ll have to makeo._  
  
  
She swung one stiff leg forward. Then the other. She went one tiny step at a time until she was close enough to kneel beside the puddle and cup some water in her hand. Best to just get it over with. She lowered herself to her knees and reached for the puddle.

  
As soon as her hand touched the water it burned as though she’d put her hand into a flame. She yelped, yanking her hand away from the water and cradling it against her chest. _Why can_ ’ _t I touch water? What, then, am I supposed to drink?_ She raised her burned hand to her eyes to examine the injury and watched as the damaged skin began to knit itself together. In moments, her hand was completely healed.

  
“What in hell?” Amara rose to her feet and looked around. A long hallway to the east was the only exit she saw. _I_ ’ _ll follow that then,_ she thought, _I might find someone who can tell me what the hell is going on. Maybe I_ ’ _ll find someone that can explain who and what I am._

  
Or not. As Amara made her way down the hall it was clear that she was the only living person in this crypt. Dust covered long-forgotten tombs. Cobwebs festooned the corners and crumbling arches. Skeletons in moth-eaten shrouds lay on stone slabs like the one Amara had awoken on. If there were anyone in this place who could tell her what was going on, she wouldn’t find them here. _Shame the dead don_ ’ _t speak_ , Amara thought, pushing through a particularly dense cobweb, _One of them might know something._

  
The hallway led to a long flight of crumbling stone stairs. Amara climbed them, taking care to avoid the broken stairs. She emerged from the stairwell to find herself in what must have once been a mighty fortress but now was in utter disrepair.Rain fell through a hole where part of the ceiling had caved in. Amara crept around the hole, hoping to avoid the worst of the rain. Rubble blocked one corridor, so she turned and went down the other corridor, emerging in a room that, mercifully, still had a roof.

A broken stone sarcophagus lay in the corner. God, someone had broken it in half. What could have been strong enough to manage that?

  
Nearby was a stained glass window. Some panels were missing, but Amara understood the story it was telling: A monstrous man with long white hair and black armor crossed swords with a saintly-looking young man in red armor. Both men wielded the same sword.

  
There was another stained glass mural on the other side of the room. More panels were missing from this window, and it took a moment for Amara to work out the story. The first image depicted a demonic-looking man with batlike wings looming over a small village of terrified humans. The second showed a knight in red and gold armor standing triumphant over the winged man, holding the creature’s black heart above his head. The knight’s armor felt familiar to Amara. She must have known him or someone who wore similar armor.  
  
  
“Who were you? Are you alive now?” She hadn’t meant to speak out loud.

The figure on the window gave no answer.

  
She left the chapel and walked into a round room, with a crumbled marble statue in the center. The statue depicted a man wearing armor very much like the man painted on the window in the other room. Time had worn away much of the detail on the statue, and the head was gone, but a single word carved into the base remained: Raziel.

  
Amara tilted her head. _I know how to read, apparently._ She turned to look around the rest of the room. There were five sections on the wall, each with a single, faded fresco painted on it. The frescoes depicted men in armor, kneeling, with their eyes closed. Their names were painted beneath their pictures.  
  
Turel, looking more stern than reverent.  
  
Zephon with flame-red hair.  
  
  
Rahab, who wore a seahorse emblem on his armor.  
  
  
Melchiah, in yellow.  
  
  
And Dumah, who alone was depicted holding his sword upright. Dumah, who alone was depicted with a purple demon looming behind him. Amara lightly traced the portrait of Dumah with her fingertips. He was familiar to her, more than the others. _I knew them all,_ she thought, _but Dumah..._

Memories tugged at the back of her mind, brief flickers that told only part of a story.  
  
  
_A strong presence behind her, an arm correcting her posture while she held the halberd._  
_  
_  
_Laying side-by-side in a clearing, gazing at a clear blue sky punctuated by the occasional wispy white cloud._

  
“ _We should stay in this glade forever. Sod the others._ ”  
  
  
Dumah had been the most important of these men to her. She glanced at the statue in the center of the room. Raziel. Raziel was important, too, but in a different way.

  
Another memory pushed forward, a taunt that echoed through the keep.

  
“ _Call your dogs! They can feast on your corpses!_ ”

  
_There_ ’ _s a rush of activity as every knight in the Stronghold stirs. A woman screams._

  
“ _Malek!_ ” _A man is screaming now. Another voice joins his._ “ _Malek!_ ”

  
_Dumah hurries to get his armor on. He pulls his helm over his head. Hands in heavy gauntlets clap hard on her shoulders._

  
“ _Stay behind. I_ ’ _ll find you when it_ ’ _s over._ ”  
_  
_  
**_Don_** ’ ** _t go. Don_** ’ ** _t go. Something terrible is going to happen if you go. Let me go instead._**  
_  
_  
“ _Don_ ’ _t follow me. That is an order."_  
  
  
“I warned you,” she whispered. Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and frowned. What terrible thing had happened to these men? Maybe it’ll come back to me, like some of these other memories did. She massaged her temples, still frowning, then moved deeper into the abandoned stronghold.  
  
  
More bits and pieces of memories surfaced as she walked.  
  
  
_A pile of flaxen hair at her feet. The scrape of a razor on her scalp._  
_  
_  
“ _You_ ’ _re tall for a woman. We_ ’ _ll start you with a quarterstaff. You have the reach for it._ ”  
  
  
A long hallway stretched before her. Even as it crumbled it retained its magnificence. There were doors on either side of the hallway. She could almost picture what it would have looked like before, all white granite, with the sun pouring through the tall, arched windows.  
  
  
_Did I patrol these halls when I was a knight?_  
  
  
A rusted door hinge squeaked. Amara turned toward the door that had just opened. A man in mismatched armor leaned against the doorway, pressing a hand against his side. He held a sword in his other hand. Amara caught the scent of blood and her heartbeat quickened. For a moment they faced each other in silence. The injured man raised his sword and rushed toward her with surprising speed.  
  
  
“Die, vampire!” Amara jumped out of the way, effortlessly maneuvering behind him.  
  
  
The man stumbled, and Amara leapt onto his back, winding her arms and legs around his waist. His hands clamped around her arms while he tried to pull her off of him. He smelled of blood and sweat and fear and--Amara sank her teeth into the side of his neck. The man screamed a strangled, gurgling scream. Blood rushed into her mouth, sweet, metallic. She swallowed it greedily while the man’s screams turned to whimpers. _More. I need more._ She yanked the man’s head back. A sharp crack rang out through the hall and the whimpering stopped.

  
Amara continued to drink, sinking to the floor as the man’s body sank. Nothing else mattered now. She needed blood. More blood. Her claws tore into the man’s flesh. She sucked the blood off of her fingers. This was the sweetest, most divine thing she had ever tasted. The unbearable thirst she’d felt upon waking had gone. At that moment, the haze cleared.  
  
  
Amara found herself kneeling beside the man’s ruined body. His throat was completely torn open, his head turned at an unnatural, impossible angle. White bone peeked through shredded tissue. Not just the throat, she realized. She’d torn his chest open. The heart was gone.

  
_God, did I eat it?_

  
_I killed him. I killed him I killed him I killed him_

  
_He attacked me first. I had to defend myself._

  
_Is breaking an injured man_ ’ _s neck and tearing out his heart defending yourself?_

  
_He called me a vampire._

  
_Vampire._ The very word filled Amara with loathing. Whatever she had been before, vampires were the enemy. She drew her knees to her chest and laughed, rocking back and forth on the cold stone floor while what was left of the man’s blood oozed around his body. Tears streamed down her face while she laughed. What a joke. What an absolute joke.

  
“Oh, child. How it pains me to see you in this state.” A man spoke in a soft, reedy voice. Amara raised her eyes and found herself face-to-face with a floating, translucent man who shimmered with a pale blue light. He wore a hooded robe and held a staff carved to resemble a serpent. The serpent staff held an orb in its mouth. The man’s face was thin and deeply lined.

  
She scooted away. “Keep your distance, spirit.”

  
The corners of his mouth turned up in a wistful smile, deepening the lines on his face. “I foresaw this and still, you wound me. Do you not recognize me, my girl?”

  
“I do not know you,” Amara said, continuing to edge away from the spirit. Something tugged on the back of her mind. She’d heard the spirit’s voice before, and there was something familiar about the staff...The spirit sighed and sadly shook his head.

  
“I suppose the shock of dying and spending two centuries asleep has played havoc with your memory.”

  
Dying? Sleeping? Amara shook her head. “No, no. I can’t have died--I can’t have been asleep for--”

  
“I’m afraid it is so, child,” the spirit said. He floated toward Amara and rested a spectral hand on her shoulder. “Is there something you can remember? Anything?”

  
“I lived here once,” Amara answered, “A long time ago.”

  
“Seven hundred years ago,” the spirit added.

  
That couldn’t have been possible. How could she have lived in this keep seven hundred years ago, but only been asleep for two hundred? Where had the missing five hundred years gone?

  
“Let me explain,” the spirit said, as if he’d heard Amara’s thoughts. “Follow me.”

  
Against her better judgement, Amara rose to her feet and followed the ghost down the hall. As they moved through, he spoke, floating backwards so that he faced her. “My name is Moebius, dear girl,” the spirit said. “In life, you were as a daughter to me.” His voice was soothing, paternal.

  
Amara’s shoulders dropped. Her fingers uncurled. There was no reason for this ghost to lie to her, was there? And it wasn’t like he could hurt her. The more she looked at him, the more familiar he felt.

  
_She buries her face in his purple robe and sobs because she couldn_ ’ _t save Dumah._

  
The spirit was safe. He was who he said he was. Amara was sure of it.

  
“Once, you were a paladin of the Sarafan order: warrior priests who waged a holy war against the vampires that have always plagued our land,” Moebius continued. “Seven hundred years ago, vampires slaughtered the Circle of Nine and the six Inquisitors. I believe you passed their memorial earlier.”

  
_Raziel. Turel. Zephon. Rahab. Melchiah. Dumah._

  
Amara nodded. “They were--Dumah was...important to me.”

  
“You were important to each other.” Moebius stopped and floated in front of a wooden double-door. “The two of you, ah, broke your vows, as it were.” He chuckled. “You were only human.”

  
Now she understood why she’d been drawn to the fresco of Dumah more than any of the others. That memory she had, the one where Dumah had ordered her to wait--that must have been the day he was killed.

  
“What was the Circle of Nine?” The words were familiar. She had a sense that the Circle had been important, that it had been above everything else.

  
“Goodness, that deep sleep took a toll on you.” Moebius’s tone was light, on the edge of teasing. “The Circle of Nine were powerful sorcerers called to protect the Pillars of Nosgoth. The Pillars gave life to the land. Each of us guarded a specific Pillar.”

  
“Which was yours?”

  
“Time.”

  
_Time._

  
The doors opened, seemingly of their own volition, and Moebius floated inside, beckoning for Amara to follow. Here was another round room with frescoes painted on the wall. These were so faded Amara couldn’t tell what they depicted, save one.  
A vaguely human monster with green skin stood over the body of a woman. He held a bloody hand aloft, letting a drop fall on his grotesquely long tongue.  
  
  
_Just like I did with that man_ ’ _s blood. I am a monster too._

  
“The vampire Vorador,” the spirit said flatly. “He slaughtered six of the Circle in this very room on the same day the Inquisitors were martyred. Only I and two others survived.” He turned toward Amara with a gentle smile. “Look here, child.”

  
He pointed his staff to the scrying basin in the center of the room. Amara approached the basin and looked down. The face she saw reflected in the still water startled her. A shock of long, tangled white hair framed a heart-shaped face. Blood ringed her dark red lips. Feeling self-conscious, Amara rubbed her mouth with her sleeve, succeeding only in smearing the blood further.

  
_Weren_ ’ _t my eyes grey once? When did they turn amber? Wasn_ ’ _t my hair short?_

  
Moebius pointed his staff at the water and the image shifted and changed.

  
Dumah and Rahab stood guard in the chapel where the stained glass murals had been. The windows were plain and the broken sarcophagus was nowhere to be found. A strange creature wielding a long, wavy-bladed sword approached them. At first glance, Amara thought it was a walking corpse, but its skin was blue and the ragged remains of wings fluttered behind it. Not a corpse. A demon, maybe, or an exceptionally old vampire.

  
“You tried to warn him,” Moebius said, “And then you tried to save him, but--”

  
“I couldn’t,” she finished. She turned back to Moebius. “Is that how I died? Did I die that day?”

  
“No.” Moebius shook his head. “You died later. Much later. I offered you the chance to avenge Dumah’s murder, and you accepted. That was when you died.” He cocked his head toward a stone door on the far side of the room. “You used that chamber to travel five hundred years into the future, where I was waiting for you.”

  
Amara’s head ached trying to make sense of it all. She was a paladin seven hundred years ago, but she’d been able to time travel to the future? She went to the future to avenge Dumah’s murder?

  
“I _am_ the Time Streamer,” Moebius chortled. “Look again.”

  
The image in the basin shifted, and Amara saw a horrifying creature cradling a seriously injured woman in his arms. The beast looked almost like a man, but much larger, with a crest of horns on his head, skin that reminded her of leather armor, and waist-length white hair. His three-taloned hand gave him away as a vampire.

  
Amara focused on the woman next. She was wearing Sarafan armor. The purple gambeson of a lancer. Bloody hands clasped a wound on her stomach and her mouth and cropped flaxen hair were caked with blood."That poor woman,” Amara whispered.  
“ _You_ were that poor woman,” Moebius replied. “That vile creature you see in the basin is an elder vampire named Kain. “ He frowned, looking unexpectedly fierce in that moment. “He transformed you into a vampire two centuries ago, and abandoned you. He left you sleeping where he found you. You would be there today, still sleeping, if I hadn’t found you.”

  
“It would have been kinder to kill me!”

  
“Perhaps.” Moebius waved his staff over the basin again and the image faded away. “But think of this as an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

  
“How?”

  
“Kain didn’t stop with turning you,” Moebius said. “He turned the fallen Inquisitors as well.” His eyes narrowed into deadly slits. “Redeem yourself. Avenge your fallen brothers. Kill Kain.”

  
The very thought of Sarafan being turned into vampires made white-hot rage curl in Amara’s belly. How dare Kain desecrate their bodies! How dare he turn her brothers-in-arms to his foul purposes! Her fingers curled and uncurled.

  
“You say that like it will be simple,” she replied. “You said this Kain is an elder vampire. I’m practically a newborn. How am I going to fight him?”

  
“Let your righteous fury guide you, as it did when you were human.”

  
“Where can I find Kain?” Amara turned her attention back to the scrying basin, curious to see if a clue would appear in the still water.

  
“He is beyond your reach at this moment.” As Moebius spoke, another image appeared in the basin. A vision of Kain at the Pillars appeared. Amara gasped--The Pillars were white, weren’t they? White and standing in a beautiful forest glade?  
The glade in which the Pillars had been standing was utterly destroyed. The trees burned. Fissures expanded outward from the ground around the base of the Pillars, like cracks in a broken mirror. The Pillars themselves were a sickly dark grey. They jutted out of the dais like broken teeth. Pieces that broke off of the Pillars littered the ground.

  
“He stands two centuries in the past now, searching for a way to become the Scion of Balance. Standing at the scene where he refused his destiny and destroyed the very Pillars that nurture our world.” Moebius scoffed. “He is no Scion of Balance. He is a pebble in the pond who destroys all he touches. And if he continues...” Moebius’s voice trailed off. The image faded away.

  
Amara’s eyes stayed fixed on the basin. None of what Moebius had said made any sense. Scion of Balance? That sounded made up. The kind of title a vampire with delusions of grandeur would give itself.

  
“A device that can help you reach Kain is located under the city of Meridian. It will be a journey of some days.” Moebius rested a spectral hand on Amara’s shoulder. “I cannot accompany you, I’m afraid. My spirit is bound to this place.”

Amara glanced at the doorway. Was it still raining? 

“Make your way to the coast and follow it. You’ll reach Meridian in a few days.” As Moebius spoke, he began to fade away. 

“Wait!” 

“A word of caution,” Moebius said. He was nearly invisible now. “You may encounter a young Kain on your travels. Do not attempt to kill a young Kain. History will not tolerate such a massive change. The consequences will be dire.” 

“What consequences? Why shouldn’t I stop him before he starts? Moebius?” 

The spirit was gone. Amara was alone, with only the faint sound of rain for company. 

  
  



End file.
